Voyage to Somewhere (23 page)

He paused and seemed a trifle embarrassed. “I hope the meeting goes all right,” he said.

“Of course it will go all right,” I replied. “Don't worry about it.”

Later in the evening, however, I found myself worrying about it. I hoped that Mr. Warren's father would have enough sense to keep quiet if he had any objections to what he found.

My concern about Mr. Warren's problems was soon forgotten in the excitement of new sailing orders for the ship. The port director came out to us in his boat and the first thing he said was, “Well, they're here!”

“What are here?” I asked.

“Your sailing orders, man! You're going without cargo to Manila. There you're going to load ammunition and go on to some place, I don't know where. Iwo Jima, Okinawa, or some place—all I know is it won't be home!”

“Well, I'll be damned!” I said. Suddenly the old run between Tacloban and Guian looked pretty good. A funny feeling hit the pit of my stomach. Taking the orders from the port director, I went up to the bridge. Flags looked at me expectantly, and I noticed that a lot of seamen had come out on deck and were standing around as though they wanted to ask questions. I snapped on the public address system and took the microphone in my hand.

“Tomorrow we leave for Manila,” I said. “After that we're going on to some place, I don't know where. Iwo Jima, Okinawa, or some place—all I know is, it won't be home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A
T DAWN
the next morning we weighed anchor and set our course for Manila. The morning was a beautiful one; there was just enough haze left from the night to diffuse the bright colors of the rising sun and spread its glow all across the sky. Our route took us through the Philippine Islands; nowhere did we actually go to sea, for all around us we could see the islands, like the shores of a lake. Sometimes we went through narrow channels that ran swiftly like a river between mountains rising straight out of the sea. Sometimes we sailed across bays which were so quiet we could see the reflection of the ship sailing along in the black water beside us. Often we were so close to land that we could see the thatched native huts huddled close to the sea and the thick underbrush on the hills rising in back of them. Most of the islands appeared entirely uninhabited. All of them looked so vast as they stretched over the ocean and up to the clouds that it seemed absurd for either the Japs or ourselves to talk about occupying the Philippine Islands. Nobody occupied them. Even the vindictive Moros and all the other strange little black people who, with the yellow Filipinos, called the islands their own, lived only in a few spots in a valley, or by the sea, and all the vast interiors and precipitous slopes were still unoccupied.

The sun climbed high in the sky. I sat under my awning on the flying bridge. Surrounded by the steep islands, there were no worries of storm or navigation, and we had so many air bases now that enemy attack did not concern me. Behind me the voyage from the States, with all its stops and duties and worries, stretched like a crooked street. Around the corner of the future there lay the voyage from Manila to wherever they were going to send us. But here in the present was this short, worriless sail to Manila. I enjoyed it so much that I stayed up all night and got just as tired as if I had been sitting on the bridge worrying.

When we arrived in Manila we were ordered to stand by and wait. Liberty was granted to half the crew, and I myself went eagerly ashore. In a way, going to Manila was a sort of second-best going home. In Manila there was civilization, the first civilization we had seen in over a year.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

W
HEN I RETURNED
to the ship I felt as refreshed as if I had just come back from ten days' leave, but my good spirits were quickly dampened. Mr. Crane was waiting for me in my cabin.

“It's Livingston,” he said. “We'll have to court-martial him.”

“Oh, my God!” I replied. “What has he done now?”

“He disobeyed a direct order,” Mr. Crane said. “Boats told him to clean up the officers' head, and he point-blank refused. Boats called me. I told him to clean up the head. He still refused. I told him that he'd either obey or we'd lock him up to await a court-martial. He wouldn't obey, so we locked him up.”

“Where have you got him locked up?” I asked.

“Seeing we have no brig, I didn't know where to put him at first,” Mr. Crane replied. “Finally I put him down in the paint locker.”

“The paint locker!” I said. “For Christ's sake, the fumes will kill him!”

“I had Boats take the paint out first,” Mr. Crane replied.

“Come on, let's go up and see him,” I said.

Mr. Crane did not move.

“Wait a minute, Captain,” he said. “I'd like to tell you something. If you're going to white wash this case, you might as well transfer both Boats and me. If we don't get your backing, we won't be much use to you.”

“God damn it, I'm not going to whitewash anything!” I said. “Come on, let's go see Livingston!”

We walked forward. The paint locker was in the very bowels of the ship, next to the chain locker. A hatch in the forecastle deck led to it. When we entered the forecastle three or four men sat up in their bunks and looked at us interestedly. Mr. Crane pulled up the heavy steel hatch, and I looked down into what seemed a bottomless abyss.

“Livingston, come up here!” I called. My voice echoed in the hollow steel chamber. There was no answer at first. Mr. Crane took a flashlight from his pocket and directed its beam into the dark hole. Sleeping on a blanket at the bottom of the ladder was Livingston. He stirred when the light struck him and looked up.

“Come here!” I said again.

He got to his feet and climbed up the ladder. We stood back as he clambered over the edge of the hatch.

“We'll go to my cabin,” I said. Livingston, Mr. Crane, and I walked out of the forecastle. Behind us we heard a buzz of voices.

In my cabin Mr. Crane sat down on the bunk. I sat in my desk chair. Livingston stood beside me. He looked strangely relaxed.

“Now, Livingston, I want to hear your side of the story,” I said. “Tell me exactly why you refused a direct order.”

“There were a lot of reasons, sir,” Livingston said.

“What were they?”

“Well, sir, Boats gave me an illegal order. He told me to clean up the officers' head. I'm no steward's mate—I'm a seaman!”

“It wasn't an illegal order,” I said. “When there are no steward's mates on a ship, it is legal to order a seaman to do a steward's mate's job.”

“I won't clean up after officers!” Livingston replied. “For hundreds of years that's all Negroes could do in the Navy! Now things are different. I'm a seaman. I'm supposed to work on deck!”

“Nevertheless, you refused a direct order,” I said. “Did you have any other reasons for your action?”

“Yes, sir,” Livingston replied. “Boats called me a nigger.”

I glanced at Mr. Crane. I saw that he looked a little strange, and I wondered if he had known this and not told me.

“Tell me just how it happened,” I said to Livingston.

“Well, sir, I was working on deck,” he continued. “Boats came up to me and said, ‘Hey you, Livingston! Get in there and clean up the officers' head!' I told him that I was a seaman and I wouldn't do it. ‘You'll do what I tell you to dol' Boats said. I told him I didn't have to obey an illegal order. Then he said, ‘I've got enough trouble around here without a nigger sea lawyer!' and he went to get Mr. Crane. I told Mr. Crane I wasn't going to obey Boats, and Mr. Crane had me thrown in the paint locker.”

“All right, Livingston,” I said. “You go back to your bunk. You needn't go back to the paint locker, but don't go off the ship. I'll investigate this case and see you later. I admit there were extenuating circumstances, but you'll have to be punished for disobeying a direct order.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Livingston. He left the cabin. Mr. Crane was silent until the sound of his footsteps had faded out in the passageway.

“So you're going to whitewash the whole case!” he said.

“Now you wait a minute, Mr. Crane!” I exclaimed. “As far as I can see, you're really the guilty man in this case! I can understand that Livingston would be proud of the Negro's new privilege of being a seaman and that he would refuse to obey a man who called him a nigger. I can understand how Boats could lose his temper and call him a nigger. But I'll be damned if I can understand how you could throw Livingston in the paint locker! He wasn't a violent case! You walked into a delicate situation. Instead of helping it, you made it nine times worse. You can consider this an official reprimand. You've been an efficient officer on here, but if one more thing like this happens, I'm going to send in a bad fitness report on you.”

While I talked, Mr. Crane grew very red in the face.

“I want a transfer,” he said.

“You can write to Headquarters if you want,” I replied. “When I indorse your request I'll write down the exact reason why you want to get off. When you see what I write I doubt if you'll want to send it. Now go bring Boats in here.”

He got up, and a few moments later came back with Boats. Boats stooped when he came through the door and stood, full height again, by my desk.

“Can I leave now?” Mr. Crane asked.

“No, sit down,” I said.

Before continuing, I picked up my pipe from the desk and lit it.

“Boats, did you call Livingston a nigger?” I asked suddenly.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I lost my temper.”

“Boats, you couldn't have done anything worse,” I replied. “You've done a good job on here up to now, but this throws a monkey wrench into everything.”

“I know it, sir,” Boats said. “I lost my temper.”

“Well, you'll have to be punished,” I replied. “Go to bed now, and come to Captain's Mast in the morning.”

I expected him to go, but he didn't move.

“What are you going to do to Livingston?” he asked.

“That's my business,” I said.

“Well, sir, if you're not going to do anything to him, I'd like a transfer,” Boats replied. “I've never liked this master-at-arms job anyhow, but if it gets so that a seaman can get away with refusing my orders, I might as well leave.”

“I'll decide about that myself,” I said. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Boats left.

“Get Mr. Rudd,” I said to Mr. Crane. “I want to talk to both of you.”

Mr. Crane went out, and shortly returned with Mr. Rudd. They sat down on my bunk.

“Mr. Rudd,” I said, “Boats ordered Livingston to clean up the officers' head. He called him a nigger. Livingston is proud of the Negro's new privilege of being a seaman, and he refused the order. He refused Mr. Crane's order too. Mr. Crane had him thrown in the paint locker. What would you do about it?”

Mr. Rudd lit a cigar.

“Transfer Livingston,” he said.

“I'm sick of transferring my problems,” I said. “Pretty soon all the crew will know that to get a transfer, all they have to do is foul up.”

“Then transfer Boats,” Mr. Rudd replied.

“Jesus,” Mr. Crane interjected, “if you transfer Boats, transfer me too. I don't want to be on here without him.”

“Mr. Crane is right,” I said. “We can't transfer Boats. We need him too much.”

“If you keep them both,” Mr. Rudd said, “you'll have to punish Livingston. Boats won't be any good on here if you let Livingston get away with disobeying him.”

“I think I'll keep them both and punish both of them,” I said.

Mr. Rudd got up to go, but thought better of it. He stood by the door.

“If you keep Livingston, you might as well face the fact that he's going to have a tough time of it,” he said. “Don't kid yourself—Boats is plenty prejudiced. There has always been an edge to his voice when he's talked to Livingston, and you won't be able to get it out. You won't be able to change Boats.”

For what seemed like a long while I sat and thought. Then I got up.

“There's no use sitting up all night talking about it,” I said. “I'll take care of it in the morning.”

In the morning I tried Livingston for refusing the direct order of a superior petty officer and of a commissioned officer. I broke him from seaman first class to seaman second class. I tried Boats for the use of abusive language and sentenced him to thirty hours' extra duty and thirty days' restriction to the ship. Both of them asked for transfers. I refused both requests.

A day later Mr. Crane came to my cabin.

“I want you to see something,” he said. “We found this while censoring the mail.”

He handed me a letter, and I saw that it was from Livingston to his wife.

“My Darling,” Livingston wrote. “You see by the return address that I'm a seaman second class again. I can't say much because of censorship, but everything's the same here as it is everywhere else. It seems funny to be fighting a war for fairness and all that. How is Mother and Peggy? Don't expect to hear much from me, for I'm pretty discouraged. I don't write much when I'm feeling blue.”

“Shall I let it go?” asked Mr. Crane. “Do you figure it breaks any rules?”

“I guess it breaks rules,” I said. “Hell, let it go. They say the truth never hurt anybody.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T
HE WEEK
we were supposed to wait to load cargo stretched into a month. We lay at anchor in the crowded harbor of Manila. Every night half the crew went on liberty. The excitement caused by our impending voyage did not die down; rather it increased. The men knew we were going to carry ammunition, and they worried about it. Ashore they were wilder than they ever had been before. Every night drunks were carried aboard, and Wortly had to be treated for gonorrhea.